


What to keep, what to let go

by lloydsglasses



Series: And there's a storm in every bottle of wine [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Asexual Character, Dwarrow society, Friendship, Gen, Gender Issues, M/M, Queerplatonic Relationships, Trans Character, Transphobia, dyslexic character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:12:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3900901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lloydsglasses/pseuds/lloydsglasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin has known his cousin practically since he was born, but it isn’t until they are old enough to start sharing lessons together that he decides he would do anything for Thorin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What to keep, what to let go

**Author's Note:**

> **TW for:** Trans issues and ableist bullying (I’ve included more specific triggers in the end notes because spoilers).
> 
> This is a sequel to my fic [It’s a long way down (down’s not where I want to be)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3748372), so it’d probably make sense to read that first.
> 
> Thank you to my beta readers northerlywind and ahapptune, who are both wonderful and special people. More thanks go to my flatmate for sharing with me his experience of being dyslexic, and also to madame_faust, who is responsible for my dyslexic Dwalin headcanon (along with many others!) If you’ve never read [Word Blindness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/710199/chapters/1312652) I highly recommend you do so – and then go read the rest of her fic!

Dwalin has known his cousin practically since he was born, but it isn’t until they are old enough to start sharing lessons together that he decides he would do anything for Thorin.

Low murmuring fills the classroom as the Master gathers up homework assignments, Dwalin fidgeting nervously in his seat. It isn’t that he hasn’t done the work; in fact he spent hours and hours last night practising his handwriting, just as Master Onar had instructed. But copying out runes is difficult when they seem to bunch together on the page. He’d look down at his own hands in order to concentrate on what he was writing, and when he looked back at the examples it was as if they had changed. By the time he gave up Dwalin was crying in frustration, his parchment creased from where he’d scrunched it up in a fit of anger. 

He regrets doing that now, as he watches his classmates hand in neat-looking sheets of work. He hopes Master Onar won’t be too cross with him.

“Dwalin, what’s this?”

He raises his eyes to see that the Master has reached his desk and is frowning down at his crumpled parchment.

“My homework, sir.”

“Really?” Master Onar looks up at him, raising a sceptical eyebrow. The class around him has lapsed into silence, and Dwalin sinks a little lower in his seat. “It doesn’t look like it. Why didn’t you copy out the examples I set you?”

He doesn’t know what to say. He knows he should tell the Master that he _tried_ to copy the examples – he just couldn’t get them to look right. But no one else seems to struggle with reading and writing like Dwalin and he doesn’t want to sound stupid, so in the end he says nothing. After a prolonged wait Master Onar sighs, sweeping back to his own desk without picking up Dwalin’s work.

“I can’t help you learn if you don’t take my instructions seriously, Dwalin.” The Master fixes him with a stern look across the classroom. “You need to practice when I ask you to, or one day you’ll turn sixty and you’ll be explaining to your mother why you still can’t read or write.”

A few snickers break out around the class and Dwalin feels his ears burning. He doesn’t look at anyone or say anything for the rest of the lesson, and when Master Onar dismisses them he leaves the classroom as quickly as possible.

It doesn’t help much because, even as he tries to escape down the corridor, his classmates Bildr and Buri fall into step beside him.

“Off to tell your mum you can’t read yet?” asks Buri, a smirk plastered across her face. 

“None of your business,” Dwalin grunts. He wishes they would just leave him alone.

“It is our business,” declares Bildr, from his place on Dwalin’s other side. “You’re older than us, which means you’re s’posed to be a role model.”

“I’m only seven and a half months older than you,” mutters Dwalin.

“Yeah,” Bildr says. “Anyway I wouldn’t want a role model who was stupid like you.”

It’s not the first time he has been called ‘stupid’. Dwalin wants to punch Bildr in his ugly face, but after the last time that happened, his father made him promise to try and ignore any taunts the other children might throw his way. So he clenches his fists instead and tries to think of a faster way to get home. Suddenly a body goes barrelling into Bildr from behind, knocking him flat onto the floor. Through his surprise Dwalin vaguely realises that it’s Thorin, who is now sitting on top of the other dwarf, pinning Bildr’s arms behind his back as the boy struggles and kicks.

“Get off me!” shouts Bildr.

“No! Say you’re sorry to Dwalin first!” 

“Why should I? Everyone knows he’s stupid!”

Thorin lets out a cry of anger and releases Bildr’s arms to start clawing at his hair, using it as a means to bash the other boy’s head against the floor. At Bildr’s yelp of pain Buri, beside Dwalin, clearly recovers from her own surprise and before Dwalin can stop her she’s launching herself into Thorin’s side and the two of them are tussling on the floor. Dwalin knows he made a promise to his father, but he sees Bildr starts to crawl towards the two snarling dwarves and two on one is hardly fair, so he wastes no time in joining the fray.

Dwalin comes out of it with a split lip and a thorough telling off from both his father and Balin (though he thinks he sees his mother flash him a smile), but it’s worth it when Thorin smiles at him the next day and declares, “no one gets away with insulting my best friend!”

\--

Thorin is a bit odd, for a prince. Dwalin likes to tell him so because it makes Thorin huff and roll his eyes, even though Dwalin can see him smiling. He doesn’t really mind it, because Thorin will always be his best friend no matter how odd he is, but sometimes he wishes he knew where his cousin’s more bizarre ideas came from. Like now, as they sit facing one another on Dwalin’s bed, Thorin holding out a bunch of blue ribbons that he pinched from the piles of presents in his new sister’s room. 

“Come on, Dwalin,” Thorin pleads. “It won’t take long!”

Dwalin frowns. “But I’ve never seen any boys with ribbons in their hair.”

“So?” Thorin snorts. “Master Onar says that girls don’t usually go into battle but your mother’s the most amazing warrior I’ve ever seen!”

That’s true, Dwalin supposes, but it still seems a bit weird. Thorin must see his reluctance, because he huffs and pushes the ribbons into Dwalin’s hand.

“Mother told me it makes your hair look nicer,” he says stubbornly, “and it’s not like Dís can wear them yet anyway.”

“Oh, fine,” mutters Dwalin, and Thorin beams at him. He motions for the other boy to turn around. “But you have to take them out after.” 

Dwalin’s fingers are clumsy and slow, and Thorin swats at him a few times when he tugs too hard but eventually he removes his hands and sits back to admire his work. The bows look a little droopy, but he’s very pleased with the ribbon he’s managed to combine with a braid on the left side of Thorin’s head.

“Done,” he declares, and Thorin bounds off the bed and across to the mirror to have a look. Dwalin gets up to join him.

“What do you think?” asks Thorin, twisting his head from side to side so he can see his hair from different angles.

“You look very nice,” says Dwalin, and he means it.

Thorin smiles at him. “Would you do it for me again one day, if I find some ribbons in different colours?”

He’s about to say yes, because even though he’s never seen a boy with ribbons in his hair before they suit Thorin very well, but his bedroom door opens before he has the chance and in steps Balin.

Dwalin’s father ends up escorting Thorin home before dinnertime, even though he was supposed to stay all evening. When he gets back, he sits Dwalin down on his knee and tells him that only girls are allowed to weave ribbons into their hair. Dwalin doesn’t understand why but his father says that’s just how things are. He’s told that if Thorin asks him to do it again he’s to say no.

Thorin doesn’t ask.

\--

_Asocial_ is the term his brother uses some years later. Dwalin still prefers to use ‘odd’, but he has to admit that it’s an accurate way to describe Thorin. Because there are times when his friend practically radiates his desire to be alone.

Most people don’t tend to notice because, as a consequence of being a prince, Thorin is rarely left alone and constantly has a public face to maintain. But Dwalin is not most people and he learns to recognise the off-days, as he and Balin have privately taken to calling them, when his usual morning greeting is met with silence. On those days Thorin speaks almost entirely in monosyllables and barely makes eye contact; he leaves his classes as early as possible and doesn’t accompany Dwalin to lunch.

It had bothered him at first because Thorin has never had a problem spending all his time with Dwalin, and his new reticence initially felt a bit hurtful. But he’s learnt not to take it personally by now; Thorin is a private person, and Dwalin can recognise that it must be tiring to get so little time to himself. His behaviour _is_ kind of odd (especially for a prince) but then, Dwalin muses, he himself knows what it’s like to be a bit different. Thorin has always stuck by him despite his own differences, and Dwalin is fully prepared to do the same. 

\--

“There’s a stall free,” he mutters to Thorin, who has so far only taken off his boots. Dwalin, like most dwarves, enjoys the communal baths but it is painfully obvious that Thorin doesn’t share this sentiment. His friend shoots him a small smile, as he always does when Dwalin points him towards the individual tubs, then gathers up his boots and hurries over to the stall before anyone can beat him to it.

The individual pools are not really intended to be used by ordinary patrons – more commonly they are reserved for dwarves with severe injuries or occasionally for births – but Thorin’s status tends to prevent too many objections. Dwalin isn’t entirely sure of the reason behind Thorin’s reluctance to use the communal baths but he doesn’t question it, long-accustomed as he is to his friend’s more bizarre habits. If Thorin isn’t comfortable with something then Dwalin won’t push (even if that means he usually ends up with no one to dunk).

\--

He stops thinking of Thorin’s habits as ‘odd’, somewhere along the line. He’s not sure when precisely he became aware that there was something more to them, but by the time he comes of age he is sure in his observation that his friend is unhappy. It’s frustrating more than anything, because there’s nothing he can really do to help. He tries to do small things to make Thorin’s off-days a little easier, like keeping his distance and taking on a few of the prince’s more menial tasks for that day. But Thorin has never confided in Dwalin, so beyond that it’s hard to know how to help.

“I don’t know why he’s so sad all the time,” he says to his brother one night, because Dwalin’s certain that he’s not the only one to have noticed it.

“Neither do I, brother,” Balin sighs.

“I just wish I could help him. I don’t know how I’m supposed to help.” It isn’t often he freely admits his weaknesses nowadays, but he is prepared to do anything if it will make Thorin a bit happier. “Do you think I should ask him what he wants?”

“No, lad,” Balin says (and Dwalin quashes the urge to tell his brother he isn’t a lad anymore). “He wouldn’t like that. I think the best we can do is let him know that we’re here. If he wants to talk about it, he’ll come to us in his own time.”

His brother is right, Dwalin supposes. He doesn’t like it though, because something tells him that no matter how long he waits for Thorin to come to him, his friend never will.

\--

Ironically, Thorin seems to have fewer off-days after their home is lost to a dragon. _Seems_ to, although personally Dwalin believes that Thorin’s just become more determined to hide it, now that his people need something to depend upon. He still sees that reticence in his friend on mornings when he wakes up in the tent he shares with Thorin and his siblings to find the prince curled up tightly beneath his meagre blanket, eyes screwed shut in a way that does not at all resemble sleep. On such mornings he’ll usher Dís and Frerin quietly out of the tent to give Thorin some privacy, returning a little later with what passes for breakfast these days. Thorin had seemed surprised but grateful the first few times, if his mumbled thanks were any indication. 

It’s hardly just the off-days. Now they are forced to wash themselves in streams where there is no chance of privacy, and Dwalin makes a point to stand between Thorin and anyone else who might be bathing, hoping his own body might block Thorin’s from view.

It doesn’t help much though; Thorin merely takes to bathing less and less.

\--

Dwalin is fresh in mourning for his mother and father when he kneels in front of Thorin and proclaims _long live the king_. He means it though, and he believes with every fibre of his being that Thorin is the leader their people need.

“Dwalin,” Thorin breathes in a high, shaky voice, and Dwalin looks up to see that his friend’s eyes are wide with what could be fear. “Don’t call me that.”

It’s not a particularly strange reaction, he later reflects, considering Thrain’s body was never found amidst the rows of the dead that that littered the valley of Azanulbizar. But it feels like there’s something more to it – almost as if Thorin were objecting to the very word itself.

Dwalin doesn’t have time to dwell on it though; he’s too busy cutting down trees that can be used to make a pyre.

\--

Thorin led them west after the pyres were burnt. They have been settled in the Blue Mountains for some years now, and yet Dwalin’s reputation is just as fierce as the day they arrived. It’s ridiculous really. Yes, admittedly the knuckle-dusters and tattoos were never intended to make him look docile, but he had honestly expected the tales of ‘Fundinson the Fearless, who crushes the skulls of his foes with only his bare hands’ to have lost their appeal by now.

It’s annoying to have a following of adolescent dwarves who gaze at him with wide-eyed reverence, and he would have put a stop to it long ago if it didn’t amuse Thorin quite so much. His friend laughs too rarely these days, burdened as he is with the charge of a people who have lost almost everything they once held dear. But if there’s one thing that can be guaranteed to bring a smile to Thorin’s lips it’s the sight of Dwalin twitching whenever they overhear young dwarves murmuring about how all the furniture in Dwalin’s house is said to be carved from the bones of his enemies. 

He recalls one particular evening with reluctant fondness, in which Dís had proclaimed that they had received a smithing commission so difficult that only _the mighty Dwalin, slaughterer of a thousand angry orcs_ could possibly be up to the task. At the steady baritone chuckle which followed, Dís grinned wickedly, making increasingly wild declarations until Thorin’s deep laughter rang out clearly as Dwalin chased her around the small forge the three of them shared.

He supposes such a reputation is not such a bad price to pay in return for Thorin’s laughter.

\--

If Dwalin was honest with himself he didn’t truly believe they would be able to reclaim the mountain, but he put that aside in order to follow Thorin into whatever end his friend might make for himself. So it’s a shock when they finally do reach Erebor and manage to drive the beast out of the mountain. 

The sequence of events that follow shocks him even more. It’s sickening to watch his best friend, the most honourable dwarf he has ever known, twisted into this vile creature who values gold over the lives of his own kin. Dwalin takes to sitting in the ruins of the library with his brother, the two of them sharing an almost commiserating silence.

The situation reaches a tipping point after Bilbo’s stunt with the Arkenstone, though in the grander scheme of things, as hoards of orcs stream out into the valley before the mountain’s gate, it seems to matter little. Dwalin is not the kind of dwarf to question his king, but Dain’s forces are dying out there and the Thorin he knows would never sit back and watch. 

His words seem to have little impact, and Dwalin has started to wonder if there is any hope for his friend, but finally Thorin comes to his senses. He considers it a blessing at the time but later, as Dwalin watches Azog’s heavy mace smash into the king’s side from across a battlefield, he almost finds himself wishing he had left Thorin in the mountain. Dwalin is too far away to be of any use, and there is one panicked moment in which he believes that he will not die by Thorin’s side after all, that he will be forced to live on until he is old and mourn his best friend.

But then, he hadn’t reckoned on Dain being quite so bloodthirsty. Neither had Azog, for that matter. They live – all of them – and though Thorin will walk with a limp for the rest of his life Dwalin laughs in relief to know that they made it through.

\--

In truth, Dwalin wasn’t sure what his place would be if they ever managed to reclaim Erebor. A military position would obviously be the most suitable option, but he’s spent his entire life at Thorin’s side and he doesn’t really want to be anywhere else. The uncertainty of it hits him in full force during the days of Thorin’s recovery, though he tries not to let it show. It comes as a relief then when he is named head of the king’s personal guard.

Being the king’s guard turns out to be very similar to their usual way of operating, which isn’t surprising when Dwalin considers that he has been unofficially performing the role since before either of them came of age. He labours beside Thorin in an effort to clear the mountain of debris, Balin observing them with pursed lips and a worried frown; Thorin has not yet fully recovered from his injuries, but their cousin has never been one to sit by idly when others are working, so Dwalin just does his best to ensure that Thorin doesn’t strain himself too much.

As the days go by and more dwarves begin to flock to the mountain, Thorin reluctantly admits there are enough labourers for him to attend to more kingly duties. After that the two of them spend more time in Thorin’s rooms, which were miraculously still intact, though covered by a thick layer of dust. The king pours over treasury figures and food reports at his desk while Dwalin – because he apparently never grew past adolescence, as Thorin takes to teasing – lounges about on chairs or occasionally rummages through his friend’s things. It is perhaps not entirely befitting behaviour for the head of the king’s guard, but it’s not like anyone else is watching and Thorin never complains.

\--

_It’s about time_ , Dwalin thinks dimly, through a haze of drink, as he watches his best friend talking quietly with the burglar, their heads bent close together and their fingers twined upon the table in front of them. He himself hadn’t placed a bet, but he distantly registers that Bofur will have made himself _a lot_ of money, as the only dwarf to bet that the two idiots would finally proclaim their undying love for one another on the day of the king’s coronation. After that realisation he decides he can afford to let someone else buy his ale for the rest of the night.

In the days that follow he comes to realise it’s not quite that simple. Two days after the coronation Dwalin lounges in Thorin’s study, while the king himself reads through something long and boring-looking at his desk.

“So, you and the burglar,” Dwalin begins, in what he thought would be a casual start to the conversation, though judging by Thorin’s brief side eye he clearly fell short of the mark. “When did that happen?”

Thorin hums distractedly. “Some time shortly before we reached the mountain.”

That’s… much longer than Dwalin expected. Of course he’d noticed, even back then, the way the two of them seemed to circle around one another; the entire Company had noticed eventually, and Dwalin is much more astute than people give him credit for, especially when it comes to his best friend. But to discover that Thorin has been _involved_ with the Hobbit for all that time comes as quite a surprise. He wonders if he should feel angry at Thorin for not telling him, but then he thinks about everything that happened once they reached the mountain and decides that it might have been difficult to talk about. Besides, he’s looking forward to seeing the expression on Bofur’s face when Dwalin tells him he lost the bet after all.

“You shagged him yet then?”

Thorin shoots him a glare. “You know I’m not interested in that.”

Dwalin shrugs. “You once told me you weren’t interested in the other stuff either.”

It’s true; though they don’t talk about such things often, Thorin had told him that he wasn’t interested in marriage or any of that rot right after Dwalin had declared his own lack of desire for love. At the time, it felt like a testament to their friendship that neither of them wanted anything else. Thorin’s glare softens a little, his thoughts clearly wandering the same path as Dwalin’s.

“It isn’t romantic,” he says slowly. “Not like you think. It just… feels right.” Thorin pauses, furrowing his brow as words seemingly fail him. “We fit together. It’s… good.”

Dwalin nods absently, though he’s not sure he really gets it. But then, he doesn’t think his own opinion truly matters; as long as his best friend is happy Dwalin will be happy for him, even if the source Thorin’s happiness is entirely unconventional. He’s hardly going to say that out loud, though.

“You know that doesn’t make any sense?” he asks instead, a sly grin pulling at the right side of his mouth.

Thorin huffs a little. “Does it need to?”

“No, I s’pose not,” Dwalin says, softly this time. He lets the grin settle on his face as he meets his friend’s gaze. “You’ve never really made much sense.” 

Thorin rolls his eyes and turns back to the document in front of him, but Dwalin notices the small smile that he doesn’t manage to suppress.

\--

In hindsight it was probably a little naïve to think that the sadness which almost clings to Thorin’s very being would miraculously disappear because he fell in love (or not – Dwalin still isn’t sure how exactly the two of them define it). Oh, Thorin definitely seems _happier_. He laughs more often nowadays, especially when Bilbo is present, and he’s eager in a way that Dwalin has not seen since before Erebor fell to the dragon; in their wandering years Thorin had always been driven, always been determined to protect his people and reclaim their homeland, but it was a determination beset by weariness and sorrow. Dwalin sees less of that weariness now. It’s as if his friend has finally found some measure of peace in himself and in his ability to serve his people well.

But occasionally Dwalin will catch him gazing aimlessly at the wall instead of working. Sometimes he’ll notice Thorin twitching almost imperceptibly as successful petitioners murmur _my thanks, King Thorin_ , or a messenger declares that _Lord Balin requests the King’s presence_. There are still days where Thorin seems to want to shun all company, even though his duties prevent him from doing so. On those days Dwalin will stand guard outside the king’s rooms rather than force Thorin to deal with his presence; he’s long past the point where Thorin’s reticence feels like an insult.

He wishes there were more he could do to help, but Thorin never mentions it and Dwalin isn’t going to force him into talking about anything. It’s frustrating and it makes him feel like a terrible friend, because Dwalin has known since before they came of age that something made Thorin deeply unhappy, he’s just never been able to figure out what.

And then, one day, he does.

\--

“What’s this?”

There, in Thorin’s wardrobe, is a dress.

“What’s what?” Thorin hasn’t looked up. He’s so focused on his papers that he’s failed to notice the strain in Dwalin’s voice.

Dwalin almost dismissed it at first. The wardrobe seems like a natural place to hide a present for Dís, and Thorin has never been particularly hesitant when it comes to spoiling his sister – or his nephews, come to think of that – even during the years when he barely had the money to afford such gifts.

But what gave Dwalin pause was the make of the dress. He’s hardly an expert, but he knows that Dís prefers square necked gowns because one year he had decided to buy her a dress for her birthday, and Thorin had taken great care to ensure that he knew what to buy. So that begs the question of why Thorin would disregard his own advice and get her something like this, with a neckline that stretches down in a ‘V’ shape. The more he stared at it the more he came to think that it was a poor choice of gift because, despite her father’s insistence that she wear the royal colour, Dís has always clothed herself in deep reds and purples, whereas this could be almost the same shade of blue that Thorin prefers for his tunics.

The same shade of…

No. That’s ridiculous.

Except Dwalin could think of no one else that Thorin might want to give a dress to, and if it isn’t for anyone else then it must be–

That’s why he asks. And when Thorin doesn’t even look up he grabs the gown from its hanger and marches across the room to shove it under the king’s nose.

“This.” He holds his breath.

Thorin goes completely still, his eyes fixed on the fabric in front of him.

“Is it for Dís?” Dwalin knows it isn’t, but part of him is still clinging to the idea that he might be wrong. He hates that his own voice sounds so pleading.

Thorin doesn’t say anything. He stares at the dress and doesn’t say a thing and that more than anything tells Dwalin what he needs to know. He drops the dress as suddenly as he’d grabbed it and stumbles backwards. He can’t believe it. His friend, his best friend, out of everyone–

Dwalin feels sick.

“This isn’t right,” he chokes out.

Thorin looks up at him then. He’s breathing unsteadily, eyes filled with a fear that doesn’t suit him.

“I can explain,” he starts.

“Can you?” Dwalin breathes.

Thorin hesitates at that, his mouth working soundlessly in the face of Dwalin’s disbelief.

“You’re supposed to be the king!”

Thorin flinches, lowering his eyes to the floor.

“Why would you do this?”

“I– There’s nothing wrong with it,” Thorin says in a very small voice, eyes still averted. “I used to think there was but…” He takes a deep breath. “Part of me is female.”

Dwalin reels back as if he’s been punched. He can’t believe what he just heard.

“No.” His head shakes from side to side in denial. “No.”

“Just let me explain!” Thorin looks desperate.

Dwalin can’t deal with this. He needs to leave. “There’s nothing to explain, Thorin.”

“Dwalin, please–”

He’s out the door before Thorin can say anything else.

\--

He tells his brother he is ill and spends the next two days in his room, ignoring Balin’s bewildered spluttering that he hasn’t taken a day off for illness since he was a child. He feels a bit guilty for it because he swore an oath to protect the king at any cost, but he can’t bear the idea of being around Thorin right now. By all rights his cousin shouldn’t even be king; he isn’t fit to rule, not with a secret like this. It hardly matters that Thorin is hiding it, because a king who indulges such sick fantasies brings shame upon all of them, whether he keeps it private or not. Dwalin doesn’t tell anyone though. He should, but he justifies his silence by reminding himself that a kingdom needs stability in its early years, and there would be nothing short of chaos if this became general knowledge. 

Thorin comes to him at the end of the second day, knocking on the door with a soft _Dwalin, please let me in_. But Dwalin doesn’t move from his bed and the door is locked so Thorin has no choice but to leave eventually. He feels his throat tighten as the king’s footsteps become fainter, but he ignores it, trying instead to focus on the repetitive motion of sharpening his axes.

The next morning he leaves his room in the early hours. By the time Balin finds him and manages to cajole him into eating, Dwalin has spent four hours destroying training dummies with his hammer. He can tell his brother wants to ask but they know each other well enough to recognise that he wouldn’t get an answer, so Balin talks of inconsequential things instead while Dwalin grunts the occasional response. He goes back to his room again afterwards, pretending not to hear Balin’s sigh as he closes the door.

\--

He eventually does return to his station as the head of the king’s guard. He ignores the surprise and trepidation in Thorin’s eyes and moves to take the place of the guard behind his throne without a word. In fact, he tries to ignore most things related to Thorin nowadays, where it doesn’t concern his own duties; he’s stopped responding whenever Thorin says something to him that doesn’t require an _aye, sir_ and he pays no attention to the sometimes-angry-sometimes-pleading looks that Bilbo has started to shoot at him.

It’s much harder to ignore his other cousin.

“Why are you fighting with Thorin?” Dís snaps, having cornered him on his way back from the training grounds. He tries to move past her, but she blocks his path firmly.

“My brother might be a pushover when it comes to his friends but don’t think for a second you can get away with ignoring me as well!” It’s true, he acknowledges; Dís can be twice as stubborn as Thorin when she wants to be, and she won’t leave him alone until he gives her some kind of answer.

“It’s private,” he mutters, but Dís only scoffs and opens her mouth to argue. “Look,” Dwalin interjects, before she has the chance to speak. “Just drop it.” He wearily runs a hand over the top of his head. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Dís’s glare softens a little. “I’ve never seen you two fight like this,” she says, imploringly now. 

Dwalin shrugs.

After a moment Dís sighs. “Just don’t let it go on for too long, whatever it is.” She touches his arm briefly before moving aside. “Apologise to one another. You’ll both feel much better for it.”

Dwalin snorts as he moves past her. “I don’t have anything to apologise for.”

He tries to remind himself of that every time he finds himself standing outside the king’s rooms – outside, rather than in – and missing the easy camaraderie the two of them had previously shared. Because this isn’t his fault, it’s Thorin’s. And if occasionally Dwalin feels a stab of _something_ in his gut because Thorin’s eyes look redder around the edges than usual… Well, he tries not to think about it.

\--

The thing is he can’t hate Thorin. He knows with every fibre of his being that to question Mahal’s will is to bring shame upon oneself and Thorin knows that too; there’s no way he can’t know it and yet still Thorin tried to defend himself when Dwalin confronted him about the dress. It’s disgusting and Dwalin should despise him, but that doesn’t change the fact that Thorin once led his people to the safety of the Blue Mountains. Nor does it change the fact that he laboured every day in a smithy so that he might provide some earnings for his family, or that he embarked upon a reckless quest to reclaim their home even though he knew it might end in the loss of his own life.

It’s so hard to reconcile _that_ Thorin, the one he has always known to be honourable and determined, with the Thorin who brings shame upon all of them by trying to– 

He doesn’t even want to think about it. He wishes he had never found the dress because then he wouldn’t have to deal with the knowledge that his best friend is no longer the person Dwalin believed him to be. They were as close as brothers and finding out that it might have been false is akin to feeling like he has lost an entire part of himself. He has always stood beside Thorin and now that he can’t Dwalin doesn’t know where he belongs anymore.

\--

“I’m not leaving until I’ve spoken to him!”

Dwalin is in his room, but he can hear Bilbo’s argument with Balin quite clearly even through the closed door. He feels a little guilty at that, because his brother has always got on very well with the Hobbit and it pains him to hear them fight. Maybe that’s the reason he finally gets up and opens the door, the argument trailing off as two heads whip towards him at the sound.

“Come on then,” says Dwalin wearily, holding the door open for the Hobbit. As Bilbo marches inside Dwalin catches his brother’s eye and nods slightly; Balin purses his lips but nods back before wandering towards his own room, clearly intending to make himself scarce for a while. 

“If you’re here to make me talk to Thorin,” Dwalin says, closing the door, “don’t waste your breath. I have nothing to say to him.”

Bilbo crosses his arms. “Oh of course,” he snaps. “Just like you’ve had nothing to say for the past month. I bet you didn’t think about Thorin once during that time. It isn’t like the two of you are best friends or anything.”

Dwalin glares at him, hands clenching into fists at his side. Bilbo glares right back, but takes a breath and visibly tries to reign himself in.

“Did you even give her the chance to explain?” he asks, voice somewhat calmer.

For a moment he has no idea who Bilbo is referring to. And then it hits him like a sledgehammer to the chest. _Her._

“Don’t call him that!” Dwalin snarls.

Bilbo’s eyes narrow. “She prefers it.”

He feels sick. That Thorin would take things this far… And that Bilbo would indulge him– 

It’s sick. Dwalin can feel himself shaking all over.

Bilbo lets out a slow breath, eyeing him warily. “Fine, if it makes you so angry. But only because we need to have an actual conversation about this. Did you give _him_ the chance to explain?”

“He doesn’t need to explain,” growls Dwalin. “If you think he can explain it you’re just as delusional as him.” He is rapidly coming to the conclusion that this is probably the case.

“If you’d just listen to him you’d know that’s not true.”

“Listen to him?” Dwalin scoffs. “I don’t want to listen to him! I don’t want to hear him telling me about how he’s suddenly decided to pretend he’s female or what he looks like in a dress! You think it wouldn’t be just as bad for me to play along?”

He’s breathing harshly by the time he finishes, and he becomes aware that Bilbo’s staring at him with that odd half-frown-half-smile that only appears when he’s too stunned to articulate anything. “You have no idea how this works, do you?”

“Oh, please, enlighten me!” Dwalin spits.

Bilbo laughs humourlessly. “He didn’t just _decide!_ Do you truly think he would have chosen to be like this?”

Dwalin opens his mouth but Bilbo doesn’t give him the opportunity to answer. “We are talking about the same Thorin? You really think that someone who dedicated his entire life to his people would _deliberately_ choose something that brings him and everyone else so much shame?”

And that’s the crux of it, because Dwalin can’t picture Thorin doing anything of the sort.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” he sighs, anger subsiding in the face the bone-deep weariness taking hold. “He went and did it anyway.”

“No, he didn’t.” Bilbo shakes his head vigorously. “He didn’t choose this, Dwalin. He’s not pretending to be female because he wants to… spite Mahal or cause a stir or any of that rubbish. This is just part of who Thorin is. He can’t help it.”

Dwalin rubs a hand across his head tiredly. He’s fed up of this conversation. “Don’t give me–”

“No, you’re not listening,” interrupts Bilbo, enunciating his words emphatically. “I’m trying to tell you that Thorin has always felt female. On the inside. And he spent years wishing he didn’t feel like that but people can’t change the way they feel!”

Dwalin doesn’t know how to respond to that. He frowns at the floor instead.

“Thorin has been very unhappy for a very long time,” Bilbo continues. “You’re his best friend, and you’ve known him far longer than me. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice it.”

Of course Dwalin noticed it. He’s spent what feels like half his life struggling to find ways to help Thorin. But he never thought–

“He hated himself so much, you know,” says Bilbo, quieter now. Dwalin looks up; the Hobbit’s eyes are sad, focused on something far away. “He thought it was his own fault, when he first told me about everything. I think he truly believed he was disgusting.” Bilbo pauses, mouth twisting unhappily. “That can’t be easy, hating yourself because the person you want to be doesn’t match what’s on the outside, and hating yourself even more for wanting it in the first place.”

Dwalin has nothing to say to that.

“She hates herself a bit less now,” Bilbo sighs, after the silence has stretched out for a while. Dwalin thinks he should object to the gender change again, but he keeps quiet. “She’s finally starting to accept herself. It’s such a wonderful thing, but she can’t share it with anyone because she’s frightened they’ll hate her for it.”

Bilbo moves towards the door. “I thought she might’ve been mistaken about that last bit, by the way. But you proved me wrong.”

Dwalin wants to protest that he doesn’t hate Thorin, but it gets stuck in his throat and before he can say anything Bilbo is gone.

\--

The Hobbit’s words stay with him. In the days that follow he finds himself replaying them in his head when he can’t sleep.

_Thorin has been very unhappy for a very long time._

Well, that isn’t anything Dwalin didn’t know already. But it shocks him to think that the desire to be female might have been the cause of that unhappiness. He never imagined that people like Thorin spent their whole lives wanting to be different. Yet now he considers it he can remember hundreds of incidents from their childhood that seem to attest to Bilbo’s words, like the time Thorin had insisted he wanted ribbons in his hair. It even explains his friend’s obvious unease with communal bathing. 

That Thorin might want this because it makes him feel more comfortable is something that hadn’t even occurred to Dwalin before. He was taught that to reject yourself is to reject Mahal’s will; the only dwarves who would do such a thing were lacking of all honour. He wonders if there is truly any dishonour in a male child wanting ribbons in their hair. 

Dwalin doesn’t know what to think anymore. He doesn’t understand why Thorin would be this way, and he is so confused because everything he has ever been taught suggests that this is wrong but Bilbo’s words make so much sense. 

_He hated himself so much, you know._

He can see that now. And despite all his confusion, Dwalin thinks that the thing he dislikes most is that it took another person to help him figure it out.

\--

Dwalin thinks back to a time when other children called him stupid. He thinks about lying awake at night and begging Mahal to fix whatever was wrong with him. As a child he had felt so alone and so useless because he was different and he didn’t know why. Is that how Thorin had felt? If Bilbo is right, Thorin has spent most of his life hating himself for being different. Dwalin’s own experience seems fleeting in comparison.

And the thing is, Dwalin had a friend by his side to help him through those times. Thorin had stuck with him so faithfully, and Dwalin gradually came to learn that different didn’t have to mean wrong. 

But Thorin has had no one to help him through this. Not until Bilbo.

Dwalin discovers he has stopped feeling sick at Thorin’s behaviour. Now he thinks he just feels sick at his own.

\--

Thorin and Bilbo are sat together in front of the fire when Dwalin enters the king’s rooms. They both look surprised to see him.

Dwalin clears his throat. “Would you mind clearing off for a bit,” he asks the Hobbit, though not unkindly.

Bilbo’s eyes narrow a little, but he looks to the king, who swallows and gives a small nod. He squeezes Thorin’s shoulder briefly before he leaves, and shoots Dwalin a piercing look on his way to the door. Dwalin waits until he is gone before moving closer to the fire, taking Bilbo’s vacated chair opposite Thorin.

“He came to see me a while ago,” says Dwalin, huffing out a quiet laugh when the king frowns. “He didn’t tell you?” Thorin shakes his head. It makes sense, Dwalin supposes; Bilbo doesn’t tend to wait for anyone’s permission once he’s decided on a course of action.

He struggles to find words after that. Dwalin has rehearsed everything he wants to say in his head but it’s hard to remember now that he’s actually faced with Thorin, who is regarding him warily.

“He kept calling you she,” he blurts out, immediately regretting how harsh his voice sounds when he sees Thorin wince. He deliberately adjusts his tone to something a little gentler. “He said you prefer it.”

Thorin nods. “I do,” he says hoarsely.

Dwalin doesn’t react to that statement the way he might have a few weeks ago, but he’s no closer to understanding it. “Why?”

His cousin sucks in a long breath and stares into the fire. “It just… feels right. It fits better.”

“Because you want to be female?” hazards Dwalin.

Thorin shakes his head. “I am female,” he says, looking directly at Dwalin again. “I always have been.”

“But you’re not,” says Dwalin. Thorin’s face seems to close off. “I mean I don’t understand… I’ve seen you.”

“No, in here,” Thorin curls his fist against his chest, over his heart. “Inside. I know Mahal made my body male, but my soul is different. He made that part of me female.”

Dwalin isn’t sure why Mahal would do that. It’s hard to make sense of any of this. So he changes tack slightly.

“Bilbo also said you weren’t happy.” He pauses, frowning at the floor. “I’ve always known that, but I could never figure out the reason. Was it this? Was it always this?”

“Yes.” His friend’s voice trembles a little and his face screws up into something miserable. “I spent so long thinking there was something wrong with me, Dwalin. I wanted to be female so much, but I couldn’t–” He shudders. “I’m the king, I can’t–” Thorin brings his fist to his mouth, struggling to continue. His eyes are wet with unshed tears. “Do you understand?” he chokes out desperately. “Please tell me you understand. Please.”

And Dwalin wishes he could say yes, because hates hearing his friend sound so broken. But he doesn’t understand and Thorin clearly sees that, because he squeezes his eyes shut and starts to cry silently.

“I’m sorry I don’t understand it,” says Dwalin, a suspicious wetness in his own eyes. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t accept it.”

Thorin snaps his eyes open, looking at Dwalin in confusion and no small amount of hope. Getting out of his chair, Dwalin moves to kneel before his friend, reaching out one of his big hands to gently remove some of the hair that’s sticking to the tears on the side of Thorin’s face. “I’ve told you before,” he says, moving his hand so he’s cupping the back of Thorin’s head. “You’ve never made much sense.”

It’s hard to tell whether the noise Thorin makes is a laugh or a sob. Dwalin uses his hand to tilt Thorin’s head down, touching their brows together in that most intimate of gestures. They remain like that for a long while, Thorin’s tears eventually petering out as the two of them breathe together.

\--

After that it becomes almost like they are sharing a secret. Dwalin still finds it difficult to understand, but he comes to realise that Thorin is much the same person, despite the one major difference that Dwalin now knows about. His own role is as simple as it ever was: he protects his friend above all else, and still goes out of his way to make life easier for Thorin. They revert back to their familiar routine, sharing comfortable silences as they lounge together in the king’s rooms – well, Dwalin lounges; Thorin mostly works. But most importantly of all, Dwalin is glad to have his best friend back. 

They have supported one another since childhood and, even though he knows that Thorin’s secret is considered a crime amongst their people, Dwalin will continue to support ~~him~~ her in whatever way he can.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Triggers:** This is written from the point of view of someone who has grown up in an extremely transphobic society and has been indoctrinated with those transphobic beliefs, so at times there are some pretty gross sentiments expressed. Other warnings for misgendering, references to gender dysphoria, and ableist bullying. If you think I’ve missed a warning please let me know! 
> 
> I have one more fic that I'm planning to write for this series, along with a few short ficlets, but I have exams coming up so I won't get the chance to post them at any point soon!
> 
> 11/05 - So [tosquinha has done art](http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/post/118618295982/tosquinha-ill-just-marry-that-transman-bilbo) and it is beautiful - go look at it and cry over its beauty! <3
> 
> Also I have [tumblr.](http://lloydsglasses.tumblr.com) Come say hi! :)


End file.
